


After the Fall

by SunflowerSupreme



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Gen, Maeglin and Turgon survive the fall of Gondolin but it isn't happy, Manipulation, Mind Control, Suicidal Thoughts, uncomfortable family bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Maeglin and Turgon in Angband, after the fall of Gondolin.An AU where Maeglin and Turgon are the only survivors of Gondolin and so they are both imprisoned in Angband, Maeglin, playing the part of the willing destroyer and pawn of Sauron while an increasingly sympathetic Turgon does his best to keep his sanity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I was going to finish Mul Haust before I published this, but the plot bunny was too strong. Plus, unlike Mul Haust, I know exactly where this story is going.

They did not speak to one another for the first week.

Turgon stood in the corner, his eyes tracking Maeglin’s movements as the other paced or ate or slept. The king did not yet have the full story, he doubted he ever would, but it did not take a genius to figure that Maeglin had had something to do with the fall of Gondolin. After all, Maeglin was the one dressed in finery and cooed over by Sauron, while Turgon had a collar around his neck and orders to serve. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask of Maeglin, but the knife on Maeglin’s belt and the sharp glint of Sauron’s teeth, coupled with his memory of Maedhros, kept his mouth shut.

The rooms they had been given (or, that Maeglin had been given and Turgon found himself trapped in) were shoved somewhere in the bowels of Angband. Turgon wasn’t sure how deep they were, but Sauron had told him not to bother trying to escape because they were far enough in that he would never see the sun again.

He was starting to believe it.

Everything in Maeglin’s rooms was dark and cold and hard, something that Turgon was painfully aware of since he slept on the floor with nothing more than a light blanket (he had technically stolen the blanket from Maeglin, but the other had just stared at him and said nothing). It was also painfully lonely. The only people who had ever come into the room were Maeglin and Sauron (although Turgon was relieved that he hadn’t seen Morgoth, he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it).

Turgon was still startled that he wasn’t in a cell or dead, but it seemed (judging by snide comments that Sauron had made) that the maia enjoyed seeing him in chains just as much as he would enjoy torturing him. Not that he trusted Sauron not to decide to torture him eventually.

The dark maia was, of course, an annoying presence in their lives. He seemed to delight in causing strife and in digging further between the two. At present, he and Maeglin were sitting across from one another, sipping from a tea kettle. An odd mockery of elven customs that was horrifically out of place in Angband.

The Maia’s eyes flicked lazily to Turgon, then back to Maeglin. “Are you enjoying your new toy, Lomion?” he asked.

Maeglin didn’t bother looking at Turgon. “Yes my lord.”

Sauron tutted. “You have hardly played with him yet.” He tipped his head, flashing Turgon a smile that had too many teeth, and murmured, “he is beautiful, is he not?”

The former King of the Noldor did not like where the conversation was going.

“I suppose.”

“He is rather like… her.” Turgon’s mind whirled, wondering who it was that he looked so similar to. Aredhel? Idril? Why did it matter, either way?

“His hair is dark.” Idril then, Turgon decided, biting back a frown as he wondered where Sauron was going with his conversation.

“That can be remedied.”

“I do not want him. I was promised her.”

A sigh. “I promise you, Lomion, we tried to bring you your prize. But alas, she fled before we could fetch her. But all is not yet lost, our spies have heard a word of her and surely she shall soon be within our grasp.” Sauron leaned back in his chair. “Idril will soon be yours, my mole prince.”

There were no words, in any of the tongues of men or elves to convey the disgust that Turgon felt. But he forced himself to swallow his revulsion and step forward as Sauron signaled to him, filling the maia’s glass with tea. “Oh, has little Lomion not told you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Turgon saw Maeglin flinch at the use of his mother-name. At least he still had some sort of a conscience, even if it was only centered around one person.

“I am sorry to say I have not met your dear daughter, but I am told she is quite the sight to behold.” Sauron sipped from his glass. “You will have to introduce us.”

Turgon stepped back before he said something he regretted, although he was seething internally. It was one thing for Maeglin to destroy his home (if anyone had a reason to dislike Gondolin, it was Maeglin), but it was another entirely for him to want to harm Idril.

Sauron watched his retreat into the shadows and tutted disapprovingly. “Lomion you do give him far too long a leash.”

Maeglin’s eyes snapped to Turgon, a warning not to misbehave in front of Sauron flashing in them. No doubt he didn’t want to be embarrassed by his slave’s disobedience. “What would you have me to do, my lord?” he asked finally. “You are far more experienced in these matters than I.”

“Well, you’d have to be very careful,” Sauron mused, motioning Turgon forward. He wanted to resist, tried to resist, but there was a spell in the maia’s movements, and he glided forward against his will. “We don’t want to render him useless after all.”

Turgon found himself removing his shirt, even though it hadn’t specifically been ordered. He just somehow knew that was what was wanted, and so he folded the garment and laid it on the floor. Cold fingernails ran down Turgon’s stomach, and he was powerless to even flinch back.

“What would you like me to do, Lomion?” the Maia asked, scraping one sharp nail over one of Turgon’s nipples.

“I would like you to teach me,” was Maeglin’s reply. Turgon could no longer see him, he was somewhere behind him and he couldn’t rip his eyes off Sauron. There was something he didn’t like in the maia’s eyes, something that said he was up to more than just his usual tricks. A cruel smile flicked across his lips, and he flicked his hand toward Maeglin.

Turgon found himself turning to face his nephew, still having no control over his movements, and he knelt on the ground in front of him. His hands reached forward for the buttons at Maeglin’s crotch. “Allow me to apologize,” he said, even as his stomach rolled in revulsion.

Behind him, Sauron laughed.

Maeglin kicked him in the face.

The sharp pain broke the spell, and Turgon scrambled backward, trying desperately to get out of reach. But there was nowhere that was out of reach of the Maia’s power, and he felt his muscles lock into place, leaving him kneeling on the floor.

“You said you preferred willing bedmates,” Sauron said, somehow sounding disappointed that Maeglin had refused to play along with his demented schemes. “He was begging for you, Lomion.”

“I do not consider myself a showman,” Maeglin said stiffly. “Though if you wish to use him, by all means, he is yours.”

Maeglin’s offering of him to the Maia stung, even after everything else that had already come between them.

Sauron laughed, and his hand moved to rest on Turgon’s back. “Would you watch us?” he asked, and Turgon could easily imagine the glee in his eyes. “Perhaps he would make such an enticing figure that you would plead to join in.”

Turgon couldn’t imagine himself being all that enticing while being raped, even if Sauron put him under a spell, but with Maeglin’s mind so clearly twisted, he wasn’t certain what the other would want.

But Maeglin just laughed. “Looking at him makes me sick,” he said, “No matter if he is being fucked or not.”

Sauron changed the subject after that, although Turgon had a bad feeling it wasn’t going to be the last time he heard about it. Instead, the two moved on to discussion smithing, something Turgon knew little about. The maia’s control over the elf didn’t end, however, and Turgon found himself crawling forwards to where Sauron’s hand draped over the edge of his chair and licking at his fingers. There was no obvious reason for the Maia to force him to do it - there was nothing on his hand - but he forced Turgon to do it anyway.

He lapped at Sauron’s fingers until his mouth was dry, then the Maia held out a glass of water to him which he greedily drank from. Maeglin said nothing, and the conversation didn’t lul once, not even when Turgon took two of Sauron’s fingers into his mouth and sucked them. The display became even more humiliating after that, Turgon fucking his mouth on the Maia’s hand, but Maeglin continued not to say anything, as though he was as aware as Turgon of what Sauron wanted.

Turgon wasn’t allowed to stop sucking, even after his mouth became so dry that it hurt, until the Maia finally grew bored of his conversation with Maeglin and informed the other that he had other business to attend to. When Sauron stood from his chair, the spell was broken and Turgon scurried back, still on all fours.

Maeglin said nothing as he brushed past him, following Sauron out toward the door.


	2. In which Turgon is a healer

Maeglin had always been moody and irritable, but those qualities had only been worsened by Angband it seemed. Although so far he had only struck Turgon once, and it seemed that more than anything he wanted to test his limits and see how Turgon would respond, he had given the former king a list of demands, things he wanted to be straightened or furniture he wanted moved.

It no doubt would have taken less time for Maeglin to do the work himself than explain it to Turgon, but he seemed to just want to watch Turgon do it.

The morning after the revelation of why Maeglin had betrayed Gondolin, Turgon was working on one such demand, pulling an unwieldy carpet across the room, when Maeglin stomped past him. He watched him go, debated following after him, then decided against it and returned to his task. Whatever fit Maeglin was throwing, Turgon was not going to be a part of it.

Or so he had thought.

Only a moment after slamming a door somewhere out of sight, Maeglin yelled, “Uncle!” and Turgon found himself following after him.

His nephew was in his bathing chambers, sitting on the edge of the tub, one arm held out in front of him. “I burned my arm in the forge,” he said, by way of explanation.

 _So you are forging weapons for them now?_ Turgon shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “That is evident.”

Maeglin shook his arm. “Treat it.”

Turgon glanced at the burn, frowning slightly. It really wasn’t that bad, and he highly doubted that Maeglin couldn’t manage it himself (in Gondolin he’d seen him treat others who had been burned in the forge, although he’d never seen him treat himself).

“You would be better seeing a healer.”

“Where do you propose I find one?” Maeglin snapped.

Turgon couldn’t resist his words, even though he knew it was likely to cause trouble with his new master, “I don’t know, it seems you’ve gotten most of mine killed.”

Even though he’d known Maeglin wouldn’t be happy (he didn’t want to consider the thought of Maeglin gloating over the destruction of Gondolin) he still wasn’t expecting the slap. Judging by his face, Maeglin hadn’t been expecting to do it either.

For a moment they both stood in shocked silence, staring at one another and not knowing what to say. Then Maeglin swallowed and cooly said, “You will treat my arm.”

“Yes master,” Turgon said, not bothering to hide the ice in his voice. Maeglin didn’t flinch, but something sparked in his eyes. Turgon was rather alarmed to note that it seemed Maeglin hadn’t appreciated being called master as much as he’d expected him to. He filed that information away for later, however, and instead held out his hand, catching Maeglin’s injured arm and inspecting it.

After a moment the former king of the Noldor sighed, “I will need supplies if I am to treat this. It needs a salve.”

“There.” Maeglin, ever an elf of few words pointed behind Turgon to a cupboard the elder elf hadn’t yet bothered to inspect. Upon opening it, he found a small stash of medical supplies, which were labeled in an unfamiliar handwriting. He filed it away, making a note to look into it later, and picked out one that was labeled for burns. Then he took the vial, and a roll of bandages, back to where Maeglin was sulking.

His nephew didn’t say a word as he patched and bandaged his arm, not even when he cleaned it with more force than was necessary (was it foolish to try to provoke him? Perhaps, but Turgon wanted to know what the boundaries were).

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Is that all?” Then, just to see what Maeglin would do, he added, “Master.”

Maeglin scowled. “Get out.”

Turgon didn’t need to be told twice. He didn’t see Maeglin again until that evening when the elf crawled into bed in his rooms. Turgon made an attempt to make himself as comfortable as possible on the floor by the fireplace. It was no Tower of the King, but at least it was not the Grinding Ice.

There was silence for a moment, then Maeglin said, “Lay with me.”

Turgon knew full well that Maeglin was given free rein over him, allowed to do whatever he wished to the former king. If Maeglin wished to kill him or torture him, it was perfectly within in rights. But that did not mean Turgon had to play along.

“If you wish to fuck me and pretend that I am my daughter, you will have to force me or have your friend put another spell over me.”

Maeglin huffed. “That is not what I meant,” he snapped. But he did not offer any explanation of what he had meant and Turgon did not ask for it.

* * *

His days fell into a sort of routine, much to his disappointment. As much as Turgon would like to say he rebelled and did his best to escape, it was simply too difficult and dangerous to even consider such a thing. That was not to say he didn’t keep his eyes open for any sign of a possible exit, but none made themselves known.

Getting out of Maeglin’s rooms was almost impossible, he learned quickly. The morning after the other propositioned him (or whatever it was Maeglin had claimed to mean by ‘lay with me’) Turgon decided that he had had enough and simply walked out the main door once Maeglin was gone for the day.

Quickly it became evident that the fortress was a maze, and before long Turgon found himself lost beyond hope, and the outside world was just as unreachable as Maeglin’s rooms. But still, he kept walking, although he had a sinking suspicion that he had just caused himself more trouble than he could handle.

Fortunately, it was not Morgoth that caught him.

Unfortunately, it was Sauron.

The Maia seemed to perk up at the sight of him (and he did quite literally brighten, the light waves bouncing off him with more intensity than before). “Turukano?” he asked, his eyes widening. “What a strange chance to see you here.”

Turgon did his best not to appear nervous, although it was easier said than done when in the Maia’s presence. “My lord,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I am afraid I have become lost.”

Sauron draped his arm over Turgon’s shoulders, a strange gesture, almost one of friendship. “I can see that,” he purred softly. “But what I cannot see, is what you are doing in the halls.”

Turgon remembered little of what happened after that. Everything was a strange, pain filled blur of bright colors and loud sounds.

Things he was sure of:

  * He’d ended up in the forges
  * He had walked there himself
  * Maeglin had been in the forges
  * Sauron had been in the forges
  * There had been a whip
  * His back was a tortured mess with no unblemished skin left
  * Everything hurt and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alive



Things he was less sure of:

  * How he had gotten to the forges (it made sense to assume that Sauron had led him, but he couldn’t be sure)
  * If he had walked there of his own free will, or if Sauron had been controlling his mind (he suspected the later)
  * Where the whip had come from (Had Maeglin been making it? Had it just been in the forges for no reason? Had Sauron procured it out of thin air or sent an underling for it?)
  * Who had done the beating
  * How he had ended up back in Maeglin’s rooms



After the torment was over, once his mind began to unblur itself and he could once again think rational thoughts, Turgon laid on his side and curled inward, trying hard not to focus on the pain. That was easier said than done, however, and every moment brought a fresh wave of pain.

Oddly, Maeglin was still there.

Turgon could hear him puttering about in the distance, clanging things together in another room. He didn’t venture into Turgon’s sight for quite some time, and when he finally did, he said nothing.

Turgon spoke for him, “Come to gloat?”

Maeglin didn’t rise to the bait. “Go to bed,” he told Turgon, as though the other were not already laying in the sad pile of blankets he called his bed.

“As long as it’s not yours,” Turgon managed to spit.

The smith stomped past him, not saying another word.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning after the beating (which Turgon still could not fully remember, and he supposed it was just as well that way) Maeglin rolled out of bed as though nothing was different. Turgon couldn’t bring himself to move, even though he knew he was expected to have food readied for Maeglin.

Maeglin stomped past him, but a moment later he returned, stomping back into their rooms, toward Turgon’s corner. “Get up.”

“No.”

“Master Mairon summoned you,” Maeglin said, tapping his foot against the floor. “Unless you want another whipping I suggest you move.”

Turgon grunted and did his best to push himself to his feet. The world spun and a wave of dizziness took over him, but he took a deep breath to steady himself. “I am coming.”

The Maia was draped across his favorite chair, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Oh Turu,” he cooed, shaking his head. “How pathetic you look.” Then he grinned, flashing pointed teeth, “and how appetizing.” 

“My lord,” Turgon said politely, bowing.

Sauron motioned him forward. “Come here.” Turgon did as he was told, in too much pain to consider fighting. “Strip,” the Maia said as he came to stand in front of him.

There was no spell over him to force him to do the Maia’s bidding, but the memory of the whip was enough to force him to move. Slowly, his body too stiff to move faster, he slipped out of his tunic.

“That’s enough,” Sauron said, motioning him closer. “Come here.” 

Turgon approached him, his heart pounding in his chest. “Turn around. Let me see my art.”

Art. That was what Sauron called the mangling of his back. He suppressed a shiver as he turned. He could see Maeglin again, although the smith barely seemed interested in what was happening, sprawled lazily across a couch with a book in his hands.

A book which was upside down.

Before Turgon could think on that further, could process Maeglin’s faked indifference, something touched his back. Something cold and wet.

He was unable to hide his shudder as Sauron trailed his tongue across one of his lash marks. _You taste like Nelyafinwe_. The voice was in his head, and Turgon stifled a cry. _Only sweeter_.

A nail scrapped down one of his scabs, ripping it away and causing fresh blood flow. Sauron wasted no time in lapping it up, his hands wrapping around Turgon to pull him closer.

Maeglin still didn’t look up, but nor did he turn the page or acknowledge that his book was upside down.

He lost track of time until it was over, keeping his eyes glued on Maeglin, watching him for any sign of movement. But his nephew didn’t even shift.

When Sauron had his fill he carelessly shoved Turgon away, causing the weakened elf to crash to the floor at Maeglin’s feet. “Do take care that you don’t spill too much of his blood,” Sauron said. From the sound of it, he was licking his fingers. “I will summon you again when I have a taste for him.”

Maeglin followed Sauron from the room, exchanging their usual pleasantries as the maia left, promising to meet later in the forge. Turgon rolled onto his side, trying not to think about how weak he was, or how much blood he had lost.

He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew Maeglin was beside him, nudging him awake with his foot. “You’d better make yourself appetizing, uncle,” he said as Turgon blinked into consciousness. “If he grows tired of your blood he will want your flesh.”

With those cheerful words, Maeglin strode from the room.

* * *

Thankfully, despite his apparent taste for Turgon, the Maia didn’t ask for more than blood. But it horrified Turgon how quickly both he and Maeglin grew used to the Maia feeding on him. It was not unusual for Sauron to visit their rooms, summoning Turgon to sit beside him or (more humiliatingly) in his lap.

He would open a vein with a knife, then slowly lick the blood as it trickled out. The only thing that got Turgon through those sessions was to watch Maeglin, who would sit himself down with a book he did not read, never once turning the pages, always seeming tense.

 _Why?_ Turgon wanted to ask him. _Why do you care?_ But even if he could have asked, he doubted that Maeglin would answer him. After Sauron finished, once he had left, Maeglin would hand him a glass of wine and tell him to sleep.

Outside of Sauron’s visits, Maeglin and Turgon continued to ignore one another, speaking as little as possible.

Turgon did what Maeglin told him to do without protest, and in return, the smith didn’t make any more demands on him, did not invite him into his bed, and did not mention Idril or anyone else from Gondolin.

But Turgon couldn't keep his mind off those things, even if Maeglin didn't mention them. Sauron had just left after making a snack of Turgon when he dared to ask, “How long have we been here?” He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. Maeglin stiffened whenever he spoke out of turn, but Turgon was too curious to care.

“Near six months,” he said, striding from the room.

Maeglin refused to give him dinner that night in punishment, and ate slowly in front of him, maintaining eye contact the entire time. But it had been worth it because it answered something Turgon had wondered for a long time.

Less than six months was all it had taken for him to break to the point where he was praying a monster enjoyed the taste of his blood enough to stop him from wanting his flesh.

He shivered at the thought.

* * *

Turgon quickly worked out a way to keep time for himself, scratching the days into a slip of parchment that he kept hidden by his bed. It didn’t give him anything exact, but counting from ‘nearly six months’ as Maeglin had told him, he was able to have a rough idea of time.

The time between Sauron’s summons for his blood had begun to stretch, which he supposed could mean one of two things. Either the Maia had grown bored of playing with them, or he was soon going to be calling for strips of Turgon’s flesh.

Either way, he tried not to think about it.

It had been two months since it had started, by Turgon’s careful counting, which meant almost seven since Gondolin (if he had correctly estimated the time between when Sauron had first drunk from him and when he’d asked Maeglin for the date).

Maedhros had been Sauron’s prisoner for years, but Turgon wasn’t sure he could hold out that long.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts before going in search of Maeglin. He hadn’t heard from the smith in some time, even though he knew he hadn’t left, and that never boded well.

A cursory inspection revealed that he wasn’t in his bedroom, nor the kitchen. But there was noise coming from the sitting room, so Turgon made his way in that direction.

Maeglin was in the sitting room with Sauron, although they were not sitting.

The elf’s hands were bound together and he was dangling from a wall sconce, his shirt had been torn off and angry red lines crossed his back.

Sauron was behind him, a whip in his hands, stroking the leather over Maeglin’s shoulders.

“Would you like to try?” The maia held out the whip to Turgon, his lips curling into a smile.

Maeglin let out a soft whimper, and it was plain to see that he was already in no small amount of pain. But even then, the offer was…. tempting.

After all, it was Maeglin’s fault they were there, it was Maeglin who had betrayed Gondolin and led to the death’s of countless elves. And for what? A forbidden love.

But Maeglin was still his nephew, and Turgon did not consider himself to be a cruel man, even to those who deserved it. He chose his words carefully, not wanting to push Sauron into anything too troublesome. “I am bound to serve, Maeglin,” he said, “I cannot harm him against his orders.”

Sauron sighed. “Did you hear that my sweet Lotion?” he asked tapping the whip against Maeglin’s back. “Your precious uncle is too noble to hurt you.” Then he smiled. “Order him to.”

Turgon stiffed and he saw Maeglin do the same. But without missing a beat, Maeglin looked over his shoulder and met Turgon’s eyes. “Five lashes.”

Hesitantly, Turgon took the whip.

Sauron was practically bouncing on his toes, as though there was nothing better than forcing someone to torture someone else. Turgon did his best to ignore him, trying to decide if it would be less cruel to strike where the flesh was already damaged or where there was still smooth skin.

“Now!” Maeglin roared.

Turgon struck blindly. Maeglin barely seemed to notice the first lash, and only slightly noticed the second. By the third he was shaking, the fourth drew a groan, and on the fifth, he shouted, “Enough!”

He didn’t have to tell Turgon twice.

The elf hurried back, dropping the whip and trying not to look at Sauron. But the Maia ignored him, his focus entirely on Maeglin.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” he Maia asked, running his hand down Maeglin’s back. “You didn’t make a sound for me, but you’ll cry for your uncle.”

“He had the benefit of an already damaged canvas.”

Sauron laughed, licking Maeglin’s blood off his fingers. “I do love the way you describe these things.”

Before Maeglin could answer Sauron landed a slap on his back which seemed to take away his breath. He strode from the room, leaving both Turgon and the whip behind.

But then he stopped in the doorway, pausing long enough to say, “Oh, Turukano, I’m going to need him tomorrow, so do try to ensure he’s presentable.” Then he blew a kiss, although it wasn’t clear which one he was directing it to.

Turgon bowed until Sauron was out of sight.

“Cut me down,” Maeglin ordered as soon as the door closed.

“I don’t have a knife.”

“Top drawer of my dresser.”

Turgon hurried to Maeglin’s bedroom, fumbling the nightstand for the knife, then returned to the sitting room.

“You took your time,” Maeglin snarled.

“My apologies,” Turgon said softly as he began to saw at the ropes. Once the ropes fell away Maeglin jumped back from the sconce, rolling his shoulders with a wince.

“Do you need cream for your back?” Turgon hung back, almost afraid to leave Maeglin in his current state.

The smith had no such fears. “Draw me a bath and get out.”

“The heat will cause bleeding.”

“Do as I say or it will be you tied to a wall,  _uncle_.”

Turgon bowed and moved to do as he was ordered. If he ran the bath slightly cooler than usual, Maeglin didn’t seem to notice.

Their relationship took an even steeper downturn after that, as though Maeglin resented being seen in such a weak state. He became more volatile, more prone to outbursts, striking Turgon out of frustration even if his uncle hadn’t done anything to him.

Turgon tried to hate him for it, but he found that he couldn’t. Not when he saw the way Sauron moved around him. It was clear that, if Sauron wasn’t getting his blood fix from Turgon, he’d found himself another snack.

Sauron wanted to turn them against one another, of that Turgon had no doubt, so he continued to be as kind as he could to Maeglin just to spite the Maia.

Sauron’s visits seemed to grow more frequent, and Maeglin was more and moodier after each one, although he was smart enough not to complain. Oftentimes Turgon would be ordered from the room during his visits, or Sauron would just lead Maeglin out the door.

Something was happening between them, something Maeglin hated almost as much as he hated Gondolin, of that Turgon was certain, he just didn’t know what.


	4. Chapter 4

By his calculation, it had been a year since their arrival in Angband. Of course, he knew his count was slightly off, but he knew he was close, and that was enough to tide him over.

But the year had done something horrible to Maeglin.

He was almost unrecognizable as Turgon’s nephew, striding about the place as though he were one of Morgoth’s Maiar, as though he were someone important. Unfortunately, with Maeglin’s growing self-worth, came more power and more responsibility, which meant more time spent with Morgoth and his ilk.

Most unfortunate was Maeglin’s habit of dragging Turgon along to those events.

It was there that he first saw Morgoth.

He stiffened when he saw the fallen Vala, although, thankfully the monster barely gave him a passing glance. “This is the King of Gondolin?” he laughed, “Look how far he has fallen.”

“Not as far as his friend Glorfindel,” Maeglin pointed out, and the table dissolved into laughter. Turgon gritted his teeth, lest his say anything stupid.

“It’s a pity, you know,” Sauron said, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “If only the orcs hadn’t been so thorough in their destruction of Findekano. It would have been nice to have the set.”

Morgoth laughed along with him, but if Turgon wasn’t imagining things, Maeglin’s laugh seemed forced. But the Vala didn’t seem to care, saying, “I would have preferred Findarato, so we could have had both of those self-styled hidden kings.”

Without thinking, Turgon said, “Yes. A pity your lieutenant couldn’t overpower an elf.”

Was it his imagination, or had Maeglin whispered a soft, “No!” right as he had spoken? Even if he had not said anything, the younger elf's eyes shot to him, widening slightly then narrowing. 

Before he could think on the matter anymore, Turgon was flung back and pinned to the wall, daggers went through his hands into the woodwork behind him.

He screamed.

Sauron was on him in an instant, his face inches from Turgon’s, his teeth bared. “What did you say, elf?” he snarled.

“I didn’t think- AH!”

Sauron twisted the knife in his hand, bringing on a fresh wave of pain. “No, I suppose you did not.” Blood dripped from the wound, trickling to the floor. 

To Turgon’s surprise, it was Maeglin who spoke next, “Let me handle him, master. I will make him apologize.”

Sauron pulled back, surveying Turgon thoughtfully. For a moment it seemed he was to be turned over to Maeglin for his torture, but then the Vala spoke, “Lomion.”

Every eye in the room turned to face Morgoth, and Maeglin inhaled sharply, then bowed.

“How would you punish him?” Morgoth asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.

Maeglin straightened his back, as though trying desperately to please. “I would whip him until he could no longer stand.”

Morgoth raised an eyebrow. “Is that…. All?” He almost sounded disappointed.

Sauron let out a quiet sigh. “I’ve been trying to teach him creativity, master, truly I have. But outside of the forge?” The Maia shrugged. “Shall we say: his talents lie in very specific areas.”

Maeglin’s shoulders slumped.

Turgon would have laughed at the absurdity of it - Maeglin, trying to suck up to Morgoth like a child to a teacher - if it weren’t for the knives in his hands.

Sauron smiled. “I propose we send him to the mines.” Maeglin squeaked and the Maia was quick to say, “Not you, Lomion. Your uncle.”

Every eye once again turned to Turgon, who struggled to lift his head. He was losing a lot of blood, and trying to keep focused on their conversation was taking a lot out of him.

“He is mine,” Maeglin protested, like a child who had his favorite toy taken away. Turgon almost wanted to roll his eyes. It was so clear to everyone who was not Maeglin that Morgoth was only keeping him around as entertainment.

“Not forever,” Sauron promised, a soft grin spreading on his lips. “But I think a year would teach him a lot.”

“Do it,” Turgon snarled.

“Two years.”

He should have kept his mouth shut.

Maeglin’s face was the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness, and he spent the next two years wondering if the look of pity had been imagined. At least they had the decency to heal his hands before throwing him away.

* * *

If life with Maeglin had been hell, then there were no words to describe life in the mines.

He tried to keep up his count of time, scratching the days onto a rock, but one of the overseers discovered him at it during his second month. For that, he had been beaten. One of his guards was about to take it further, pulling at Turgon’s pants despite his terrified protests and pleas, when the overseer had grabbed him.

“Not that one,” he had snarled. “Look at his collar.” His would-be rapist had pulled back, and Turgon lifted a hand to his neck, feeling the collar curiously.

It had been there when he had woken up, he hadn’t given it much thought, but it was different than those worn by the others. It marked him as untouchable. It would ensure he got out alive.

He nearly cried in relief.

He spent his days toiling deep below the surface, competing with the other slaves to bring up the most ore. Those who had the best hauls received the most food, and while Maeglin’s protection ensured he never starved, he found that he was always hungry.

The only thing he had to be grateful for, outside of his collar, was that no one had recognized him as the King of Gondolin. If they had, he didn’t know what he would have done.

He saw horrible things, things he never would have imagined. It was clear that either Maedhros had never fully experienced Angband or he had been selective in his storytelling. Turgon suspected the second and made a mental note to give Maedhros a hug if he ever saw him again.

There were slaves of both men and elves, even a few who might have been dwarves. Thrown together, they formed into gangs, turning on the other races.

But Turgon’s collar singled him out. Even the elves didn’t want him as their accomplice. It meant that no one tried to harm him, which was a good thing, but it also meant that he had no one to turn to when he was lonely or when the horrors got to be too much.

He saw them kill one another to get more minerals. Once, he even saw a group of men kill one of the elves and attempt to eat him. The guards had caught them, and what they had done Turgon never wanted to think about ever again.

All he wanted was for his two years to be over. To be back with his horrible, murderous nephew.

But even with Maeglin’s protection, life in the mines was difficult. He struggled to survive on his meager rations, and the lack of acceptance from the elves meant he had no one to share when there was excess, nor anyone to catch him if he stumbled.

One day, countless months into his sentence, he found that he could no longer stand. He tried, he truly did, but his feet gave way underneath him and he slumped into the dirt. Even threats of torture couldn’t move him.

The overseer came for him then, dragging him away. No one even seemed to notice.


	5. Chapter 5

There were voices all around him when he came back to consciousness, although he couldn’t remember exactly when he fainted. There was something vaguely familiar about them, but Turgon couldn’t place any of them.

All he was aware of, was that he was laying on something soft. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laid on something soft. Even before he’d been thrown to the mines he had slept on the floor beside Maeglin. It was tempting to relax, but he knew better: after all, he was most likely still in Angband.

Turgon tried to open his eyes, but after so long in the dark the light was excruciating.

Finally, the voices faded away, or perhaps he had just fainted again.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken. “Get up,” ordered a voice he would recognize anywhere.

“Maeglin,” Turgon gasped, forcing his eyes open to stare at his nephew in shock. Was it over? He could barely allow himself to hope. It hadn’t felt like two years, but _maybe_?

“You owe me,” Maeglin snarled at him.

“For what?” he asked weakly, struggling to his feet.

“You’ve only been in the mines for a year and three months.”

_No_ , Turgon thought desperately. They had taken him out and now they were going to snatch it back. “No. No! I can’t go back,” he whispered, “ _please_.” It humiliated him to beg, but he found he would do anything to stay with Maeglin.

“You’re disgusting,” Maeglin grumbled, glaring down at him. “But I’ve already convinced him that you’ve learned your lesson.”

He allowed himself to relax, sinking back into the softness. “Where- where am I?” As soon as he spoke he flinched, fearing it would be taken out of turn.

But Maeglin didn’t seem to care, already stomping off. “My sitting room.” When Turgon shifted as though he might follow him, he snapped, “Stay there.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, although he did manage to get himself into a sitting position to better survey his surroundings. His eyes still strained against the brightness, but he could make out enough to recognize the room.

A feeling of dread washed over him, remembering Sauron drinking his blood, sitting on that very couch.

Before he could decide if he was going to stand and flee or remain seated, Maeglin returned, thrusting a bowl at Turgon. “Eat.”

It was the best thing he had had in a very long time. If there was a spoon he didn’t bother with it, drinking the meaty broth straight from the bowl. He didn’t care if he looked embarrassing or uncivilized, all he cared about was getting as much of it into his body as he could.

Perhaps it was enchanted, or perhaps he was just feeling better because he was out of the mines and not going back, but he felt like a different person as he ate. He felt more alive than he had in months.

Maeglin threw himself into a chair across from Turgon, watching him with indifference. “They replaced you with a _mortal_ _slave_.” He waited to see if Turgon would react, and when he didn’t, he continued, “She was hardly as useful as you. Kept trying to get into my bed to win favors.”

Turgon didn’t care, too busy debating if he should lick the bowl or not.

Maeglin seemed to chafe at the lack of attention. “Mairon killed her after a few months. He ripped her apart right in front of me, then offered me her heart.” He wrinkled his nose. “He thought I would eat it.”

“They eat the dead in the mines.” It slipped from his mouth without thought, one of those things he had tried hard not to remember. But it had crawled its way to the surface anyway. “They feed them to the living.”

He hadn’t realized it at first, not until he’d watched one of the orcs drag a mortal - the boy hadn’t been dead yet, at least not entirely, although he was certainly about to die - to a stew pot to throw him in.

It made the torturous end of the group that had attempted to cannibalize a still living slave that much more difficult. Turgon shivered, desperate to change the subject. “Who did they replace the girl with?” Again, as soon as he’d spoken, he feared it was too much and winced.

Maeglin had seemed interested in his story about the mine, almost sickeningly so, but when offered the opportunity to complain about his own difficulties he relished it. “An elven boy. They’d ripped his tongue out, so he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.”

“What happened to him?”

Maeglin shrugged. “I imagine he’s still alive. When I got you back they took him away. He wept when they said he would be taking your place in the mines.”

Turgon winced, a wave of guilt washing over him. He tried to remind himself that it wasn’t his fault the boy had been enslaved, but there was still a lingering sense of dread knowing what the boy was going to face.

But with a disgusting clarity, he was certain that, even if given the chance to trade places, to spare the child, he wouldn’t.

“What are the mines like?” Maeglin leaned forward, staring at Turgon curiously. “Tell me about them.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. He never wanted to think about it ever again. But keeping his mouth shut risked angering Maeglin, and angering Maeglin meant risking being returned to the mines. Instead, he tried to keep his answer as devoid of details as possible. “If you told me, that the only way to stay out of that place was to sleep with you, I would walk to your bed this instant.”

“Well, I don’t think you would walk.” Maeglin gave him an amused look. “You’ve nearly wasted away, uncle.”

He wasn’t wrong. As much as the stew had made him feel better, he could still feel how weak his body was. “Then I would crawl.”


	6. Chapter 6

Maeglin seemed to think everything was going to go back to the way it had been.

In fact, he almost seemed surprised when Turgon couldn’t stand the morning after his release. He’d strode into the sitting room and demanded to know why Turgon was still sleeping. Turgon had quickly tried to do as he was told, pushing himself up and off the couch, but he only managed one shaky step before his legs collapsed and he landed hard on his knees.

“Sorry,” he whispered as Maeglin groaned in frustration. “Forgive me.” He wanted to plead, _don’t send me back_ , but he was almost afraid of putting the idea in Maeglin’s head.

The smith had growled in frustration, then grabbed Turgon by his shirt and drug him back to the couch. He’d then stomped off, returning with another bowl of the same stew he’d given him the day before. “Don’t get used to this,” he said as Turgon took it gratefully. “I just don’t want to deal with their worthless replacements.”

It took several days after that for Turgon’s health to return, but it didn’t come soon enough. Every day he tried to get up, and every time he failed Maeglin would scowl and he would feel the panic rising.

“Don’t make me go back,” he would beg, eyes wide.

“Don’t cause trouble,” Maeglin would retort. “And don’t cry. It’s _weak_.”

Every time he said that Turgon wanted to remind him that he was weak, but instead he would nod and apologize.

When his strength finally returned, he returned to the duties he had performed for Maeglin before his time in the mines. But, thankfully, Maeglin didn’t force him to attend any more of Angband’s entertainment functions.

While that meant he didn’t see any more of Melkor, it didn’t mean he didn’t see Sauron.

The Maia still visited them often, although, if he still drank Maeglin’s blood, Turgon saw no sign of it. The first time he’d visited, Turgon had still been too weak to stand. Before the Maia could enter, Maeglin had shoved his face into Turgon’s, and snarled, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll pretend to be asleep.”

Turgon hadn’t needed to be told twice. Thankfully, Sauron had either bought the ruse or didn’t care.

The next time he visited, however, Turgon was fully awake, standing in the corner, waiting for Maeglin to issue orders for something or another. But it was Sauron who spoke to him first.

“Come here, Turukano,” he said, waving the elf over.

Turgon stepped forward immediately, but even if he hadn’t, he felt a familiar chill spreading through him. It had been years since the last time the Maia had controlled him, but he still recognized it.

“I haven’t gotten my apology from you, yet,” Sauron said as he drew Turgon closer. “My sweet Lomion tells me you’ve learned your lesson, but I’m not so convinced.”

He smiled, leaning forward in his chair. “Strip. Let me see what you’ve learned.”

Turgon couldn’t help himself, removing each layer of clothing he wore and dropping them to the floor. Behind him, he heard Maeglin draw in a soft breath.

“Haven’t you admired them yet, Lomion?” Sauron asked, sprawling backward in his chair as he ran his eyes over Turgon’s chest.

He knew what had caused Maeglin’s reaction. A network of scars crossed his back from the many beatings he’d received in the mines.

Some of them he’d ‘earned’ by breaking one of their rules, some had just been delivered to him for fun.

Slowly, still compelled by Sauron, he turned so that the Maia could see his back and Maeglin could see his front. A scar ran along each rip, where one of the overseers had traced each of them with a knife.

Maeglin’s jaw tightened. Behind him, Sauron traced his scars.

Then he pulled Turgon into his lap and the spell that was over him broke, meaning he had to consciously make the choice to sit still and not fight.

Thankfully he had little interested in him after that, only holding him tightly and continuing to trace his scars.

Sauron and Maeglin talked without him, discussing various methods and techniques in smithing. Turgon just sat as perfectly still as he could, and tried not to think about them all at.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sauron shoved him away, stood, and left.

Maeglin remained seated, his only response was to look up and say, “Please for the love of Varda put your clothes on.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge trigger warning for this chapter. This is the chapter that caused all the content warning tags. There is a rape scene and it’s semi-detailed.

Six months had come and gone since his escape from the mine, and it still didn’t feel real that he had been released.

Maeglin seemed to want everything to go back to how it had been before the mines, no matter what it took. And yet he remained aloof and uncaring, still entirely enthralled by whatever it was he did with Sauron all day.

Turgon still slept on the floor, but many nights he would wake, gasping softly in a panic, convinced he was back in the mines. He tried not to be too loud, but occasionally he would wake Maeglin, and the smith would growl at him and tell him he wasn’t getting any meals in return for having woken him. He would miss breakfast and lunch, but by supper Maeglin had usually forgiven him enough to let him eat.

Sometimes he did. Sometimes he let Turgon go hungry.

Either way, it was better than the mines, so Turgon forced himself to handle it. 

* * *

He tried to focus on scrubbing the floor rather than the eerie silence that had fallen since Sauron and Maeglin had left the room. The Maia had said they had something to discuss, Maeglin had asked what, and Sauron had simply wrapped an arm around him and led him away.

He couldn’t help if it that had made him uneasy.

Maeglin had been jumpier than usual the past few months (or was Turgon just more paranoid since his return?), particularly around Sauron.

Finishing what he was doing, Turgon stood, and wandered back through Maeglin’s quarters. He walked with a slight limp, he had ever since he’d left the mines, something in his left leg hadn’t healed properly, or perhaps (as Maeglin had accused one afternoon), it was just in his head.

Either way, he usually ignored it.

Something creaked.

Turgon turned sharply, looking around for the source of the noise, but he saw nothing. “Maeglin?” he whispered, but there was no answer.

He had thought that Maeglin and Sauron had left, but perhaps they had stayed after all and were somewhere in Maeglin’s room. He shook his head.

That wouldn’t make sense. Turgon shoved open the heavy door to Maeglin’s bedroom and stepped inside. But he froze on the threshold.

They were on the bed.

Maeglin was bent double, his face pressed into a pillow, muffling sobs and cries. Sauron was over him, slamming roughly into his body, his teeth in Maeglin’s neck.

For a long moment, he was frozen in place, unable to wrench his eyes off the horrible scene in front of him. Maeglin was clearly in pain - there was blood coming from more than just his neck, coming from scratches down his back and from between his legs - and worst of all, Sauron seemed to be reveling in the ruin he was causing, as though it only gave him more pleasure.

As Turgon stood in shock, unable to move or even truly process the scene in front of him, Sauron drug Maeglin up into a sitting position, revealing even more long scratches on the elf’s stomach.

But it also revealed Turgon.

Clearly, the Maia had known he was there, had heard or sensed him enter, because he pressed his lips to Maeglin’s ear, forcing the elf to look at Turgon, and purred, “Shall I invite him to join us? Perhaps he could suck you off, then you’d get something out of it.”

Unwillingly, Turgon eyes were drawn to Maeglin’s cock, completely flaccid, as though he was getting no enjoyment from the act. His stomach churned as the Maia twisted one of Maeglin’s balls so hard he almost expected it to be ripped off.

His eyes met Turgon’s. At first, he was shocked, then pleading. It wasn’t clear if he wanted Turgon to help or to leave, but the former king of Gondolin wasn’t foolish enough to get wrapped up in Sauron’s affairs, not when he was so recently freed from the mines, and he turned and rushed from the room.

Perhaps it made him a coward, but so long as Maeglin was in Sauron’s grasp, at least the Maia wasn’t after him.

Turgon stumbled to the far side of Maeglin’s quarters, wanting to get as far away from the torment as he could, and sunk to the ground, leaning his head back against the wall. He felt as though he was trapped in the mines all over again, except, instead of nameless, faceless slaves being raped, it was the only family he had left.

Maeglin might have been horrible, but he had still rescued Turgon from the mines (never mind it was him that let them put him there in the first place). He was still _Aredhel’s son_. He groaned and rubbed his head, struggling to fight down his conflicted emotions.

It was far too long until he heard Sauron leave, the Maia calling out to him cheerfully, saying he hoped he’d enjoyed the show. “He’s still there, you know,” he said as he slipped past Turgon. “I doubt he’d notice if you took a turn.”

Turgon couldn’t help himself, too horrified by what he’d just seen. “You’re sick,” he spat. A part of him feared being thrown back into the mines for it, but Sauron just laughed.

Once the Maia closed the door behind him Turgon shoved himself to his feet. He wasn’t entirely certain why - because he knew he shouldn’t care - but something in him was telling him that he needed to get to Maeglin. Now.

His steps faltered at the door to Maeglin’s room, pausing as he took in the scene in front of him. More must have happened since Turgon had interrupted them because Maeglin was seated, his back against the headboard, arms pulled out to either side and tied to the bedposts. A leather strap, most likely the cause of the red lines across Maeglin's stomach, had been used to gag him.

But even worse were his legs, forced so far apart that Turgon feared his hips would dislocate. There were ropes that ran from his ankles to rungs in the walls, and Turgon stepped carefully over them as he approached.

He was completely exposed, and in Sauron’s mind it was no doubt intended to make him appealing for Turgon, but it only sickened him. There was too much blood between his legs for anyone sane not to be sickened.

Maeglin’s head lifted when he heard Turgon’s approach. “Help,” he choked, somehow forcing the word out around the gag in his mouth. 

Turgon turned on his heel and walked away. Behind him, Maeglin let out a wordless cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. What do you think Turgon will do?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge trigger warning. Turgon’s not the best medic in the world.

Instead of abandoning him, Turgon went to the bathing chamber, gathering up the few medical supplies they had along with an armful of towels.

When Maeglin heard him return his head snapped up. “Uncle,” he rasped. “Uncle _please_.” His words were still muffled by the gag, but it was clear he’d tried to bite through it. Drool ran down his chin. There was something else mixed in, but Turgon refused to think about it.

The former king unceremoniously dropped the supplies he’d brought on the bed, trying not to think. _No one deserves this_ , he told himself. _Not even him_. But there was a nagging part of him that whispered how good it was to see the man who had destroyed Gondolin weeping.

 _You don’t have to rape him_ , murmured a voice in the back of his head. _Just leave him, that would be enough_.

He ripped the gag off, accidentally taking some of Maeglin’s hair with it. The younger elf didn’t even seem to notice, merely turning his head to spit out a mixture of blood and semen.

“I will help you,” Turgon said, forcing a strength he didn’t feel into his voice. “Conditionally.”

“Name it,” Maeglin whispered.

“You don’t beat me or proposition me or send me to the mines or mention my daughter’s name _ever_ again.” It was a tall order, but Maeglin looked almost desperate enough to agree.

“What if Mairon-”

“I won’t tell you to go against your friend’s wishes-” he didn’t fail to notice Maeglin’s flinch at the word _friend_ , “-but when he is not here, my terms stand.” Of course, Turgon had no way of forcing Maeglin to keep his end of the bargain, but it was worth trying. “And if you want my help- you cannot fight me. As hard as it is to believe, I have your best interest in mind.” 

“Done,” Maeglin agreed and went limp.

The first thing he did was go to the rungs where the ropes on Maeglin’s ankles were secured. But instead of releasing them entirely, he only loosened them.

Maeglin let out a squeak that seemed to be a question.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you,” Turgon said, returning to the bed and sitting between Maeglin’s legs. “But I need you spread and I don’t think you have the strength to hold them out.”

“I don’t,” he confessed weakly and shifted to stare up at the ceiling.

Turgon wished he could look at the ceiling, instead of the mass of injuries between Maeglin’s legs. The first thing he did was wipe away the blood and semen that coated him, trying to ignore the soft whimpers that escaped with every touch. “I’m being as careful as I can,” he said.

“Alcohol,” Maeglin pleaded.

Turgon had to agree it wasn’t a bad idea.

He fetched a bottle from where Maeglin kept it, then carefully cut the smith’s hands free before handing him the bottle. Maeglin surprised him with a murmur of thanks before drinking deeply from the contents.

Returning to his gruesome work, Turgon wished he’d gotten himself a glass. It was clear Maeglin was still bleeding, and the blood seemed to be coming from inside him.

“The cuts are internal and there’s nothing I can do for them at the moment,” he said. Well, maybe there was something he could do.

He had no idea where the idea came from, but as Maeglin made to throw the wine bottle aside Turgon held out his hand. “Give it here,” he said.

“It’s empty.”

“I know.”

Maeglin handed it over obligingly. Before he could convince himself that he plan was beyond stupid, Turgon saturated a towel with a cream that was meant to both clean and numb, wrapped the towel over the narrow neck of the wine glass, and inserted it into Maeglin’s anus.

As he should have expected, Maeglin screamed in terror.

“Hold still,” Turgon roared. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

“What are you doing?” Maeglin wailed, trying to pull away as much as he could with his legs still tied out on either side of him. “You said you left me tied so you could help me!”

With a jolt, Turgon realized that Maeglin had no idea what had just breached him. He crawled forward so that Maeglin could see that he was still fully dressed. “It’s only medication,” he soothed, reaching out to stroke Maeglin’s cheek. I couldn’t think of any other way to get it in you.”

He supposed he could have used his fingers, but the idea hadn’t actually occurred to him.

Maeglin seemed to settle. “I- I thought-”

“I know.” Unsure why he was doing it, Turgon pressed a kiss to his nephew’s sweat-soaked forehead. “I know what you thought. I should have warned you.”

“I’m sorry,” Maeglin babbled. “I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for letting them take you. I’m so sorry for everything. I didn’t want _any_ of this.”

Turgon met his eyes in surprise, then quickly pulled away, sliding back down to sit between Maeglin’s legs. “I’m going to move it around,” he said after a moment. “It’s going to hurt, but it needs to spread everywhere.”

“Do it.”

Maeglin’s permission didn’t make his pained gasps any easier.

Soon it was over and Turgon slid out the bottle, leaving the towel inside of him to mop up the blood. “I’m going to cut your legs free now,” he said, deciding that it was best if he kept narrating his movements.

As soon as he was free Maeglin pulled his legs together as if he had some shred of dignity he could preserve.

But Turgon knew they weren’t finished. “Roll onto your stomach, let me see your back.”

He had to help Maeglin roll over, and ran a gentle hand over his side, the only part of him that didn’t appear to be scratched to bits. “I’m going to try to stitch some of these,” he said after a moment’s consideration.

He glanced at his already dwindling supplies. “I’m not going to numb it.”

“Okay.”

Turgon winced at how pathetic his nephew sounded. “You’re doing well,” he said as he threaded the needle.

Maeglin held almost perfectly still as he threaded the needle, although that might just have been because he was too weak to do otherwise. Most of the wounds were shallow, but there were a few that he ran the threads through, carefully holding the wounded flesh together.

When he was finished, he sat back, fighting a rising wave of nausea.

Somehow, Maeglin looked worse than before. Perhaps it was because his adrenaline wasn’t pumping as much, and he almost seemed to have relaxed, but it made him look sicker than ever.

“You need to bathe,” he said finally, pushing himself off the bed. “And new sheets,” he added, almost to himself.

“I want to sleep,” Maeglin retorted.

“You promised to listen to me,” Turgon reminded him, wrapping an arm around him and helping him to his feet.

Maeglin blinked and rolled his shoulders, wincing as it pulled at his sore muscles. “I- alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ending the chapter here because otherwise, it would have been almost three times longer than any other chapter.


End file.
